I'll Be Here
by Starzzu
Summary: It's that time of year again, the time where America hosts a party for his self-proclaimed birth date. And, naturally, England rejects the invitation, like every other year, only this time he has a little too much alcohol for his own good . . . and America's. UKUS


**A/N: **This oneshot was made for Casey Hence and was just meant to be a smutty drabble, but it turned into something much longer and meaningful. I really did enjoy writing this story and I can't believe how good it turned out! I thought I'd simply rush it and make it into a mess of sex but, as it turns out, the sex in this could be put in a children's book! Seriously, it's that G-rated. Oh well, lemons are better that way. Once somebody starts describing everything in a smut scene it just turns rather disgusting and makes it a little more harder to read . . . maybe that's just me. Eh, anyway, I hope you all enjoy - especially you, Casey! I can't wait to see what you have to say about it! And to everyone else, don't be shy to tell me what you think also! **  
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**I'll Be Here  
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**_Written by Starzzu_**

* * *

"_No, _America, and that's my _final _answer. Now goodbye and go socialize with the little pests at your party," The phone hit the receiver austerely, plastic covering fracturing at the churlish association, and the voice on the other side dying out with it.

England stifled a growl and instead exhaled slowly, attempting to void his mind of his tiresome conversation with the arrogant American. England knew very well that he was being acrimonious by behaving in such a puerile manner, but he could not stop his current activity unless he wanted the remainder of his sanity to waft away. The entire situation was America's fault anyway; he wanted England to attend his birthday party _again. _Every year it was the same exact thing and England, who was spent from denying each request America gave him, struggled to not march straight over to the country's house, give him a punch right in the nose, then ring his bloody neck. Though that did sound rather exaggerated, those were the countries feelings every single time his phone went off.

But it wasn't _really _America's fault for him to reject the other so harshly. No, it was because of the date of the younger country's birthday.

The fourth of July.

Oh why did it have to be _that _date of all the other days? Neither England nor America really knew when America was, so to say, brought into this world, but the country had to have some birth date, and after the arduous and sanguinary war fought between them what better date to make it than the date his "freedom" was granted? Just the remembrance of America's revolution had England either near tears or near committing homicide - for the majority of the time, it was both. The emotions were hard enough to control alone - not to mention down near impossible - but the Briton did have a godawful habit of drinking to ease past the loathsome memories.

Pushing his disheveled blonde hair back from his eyes, England started for the kitchen, unconsciously casting a glance back towards the phone, mentally wondering if it would ring again.

The British country's kitchen was stocked with alcoholic beverages as far as the eye could see: they were scattered about in his cupboards; unopened and untouched in their cases inside the closet; laid out at arbitrary intervals across his counter; and nearly took up every inch of space in his refrigerator alongside the food, almost outweighing the fellow items. Many others knew his small problem with alcohol, but he was pretty certain none knew of his real addiction to the drinks. For some normal human to consume the amount of alcohol he did on a daily basis would surely have to get sent to the hospital's emergency room at once, however, health problems for countries were unlike those of average people. Countries, for one, were not easily killed or affected by issues to their health by common inconveniences such as engrossing oneself to the consumption of great quantities of alcohol, though even if they were England honestly wouldn't care. Being a country had its good times, and being unaffected was just one of them. Besides, he _needed _that alcohol to get his mind off things - one of those things coincidentally being America.

England swore _everything _that ever negatively affected the world was that country's fault. For God's sake America's economy was crashing and the git was doing absolutely nothing to solve the problem! Every world meeting ensured the childish drawings from America but no consult with any major problems. Could the country be a bit more organized? It was a miracle he even survived on his own this far - it would be downright magic if he could sort out his priorities.

His mind in such a whirlwind of thoughts that he could barely focus on anything other than the obnoxious country, England grabbed the first thing his emerald eyes saw in the fridge and, without so much as one glance to the label identifying what the beverage was, popped open the lid and took a swig, the burning alcoholic liquid scorching his throat on its way down.

_Beer, _England confirmed, the repulsive-yet-addicting taste causing bile to rise in his stomach. _Funny how this always seems to be the first thing I grab whenever I'm stressed. _And indeed it was always the first thing his hands would touch when he was in search of a drink.

Tilting back his head he let the beer flow freely into his mouth and down his throat, welcoming the bitter tang of the booze. Perhaps it was just because he liked the taste, or that he preferred getting drunk off his arse, but the drink never bothered him as much as it did to others.

As the can emptied England let his thoughts drift to America.

What would the other be doing right now? It was his birthday, but England had never gone to any of them, so what were his parties like? Was there a enormous cake slathered in rainbow frosting with a sponge of every different flavor? Cupcakes coated over with fondant and sprinkles? Streamers of all colors hanging from the walls in every room? And just how many countries came to his parties? England could easily place Canada and Japan at the party, but what of the others? France was bound to be there, as were the other Allies aside from himself, and probably the rest of the Axis . . . .

England came to a disgruntled conclusion that just about every major country would be there, along with the minor ones. But if so many countries were already present why did America insist on ringing him up and practically begging for him to come? The brat probably assumed everyone wanted to be around him or something. How wrong he was.

A bottle of whiskey had somehow gotten into his hand and was being ripped open, the tip connecting with his mouth as soon as the cork was pulled and thrown to the floor. It differed from the beer noticeably, yet the liquor still burned his throat as he drank.

America was probably being flocked by his friends, gifts littering both his left and right, a glittering cake in the midst of it all. There must be laughing and games and gossiping; drinking and eating until stomachs hurt or until people passed out; incoherent kissing and obscenities so vulgar England couldn't focus on them with the alcohol entering his system. Of course there would be all those things! And more, no doubt. America was America, and things such as that were nothing to the audacious nation, who was in all probability gaining pounds by the minute due to stacks of hamburgers and other fatty foods. That country was so close to becoming overweight and for the life of him England could not figure out why he didn't watch his weight more closely! Maybe if he took a break from those video games and went outside for a change his weight might deplete - though there wasn't much of a chance of that.

England furrowed his eyebrows. Why was he stressing about America's weight issues? It was none of _his _business what America ate. Hell, it wasn't any of his business who America had _sex _with! He was completely isolate from the younger nation's life and preferred to stay that way for as long as possible. It could be France for all the fucks he'd give.

Ha, actually, that was a funny thought - France having sex with America. He would totally violate the other and corrupt the innocence America possessed, and that remaining virginity would vanish in a snap, like magic. Yeah, that really was humorous to think about . . . France . . . having sex with America . . . how funny.

The pale hands clenching the rum bottle (when had that gotten there?) tightened their hold, the whites of the bones showing through the now nearly transparent skin, white teeth grinding together threateningly.

France having sex with _his _America?! Where had that thought come from? And to make matters worse, what if it was _true?! _Who on earth knew what happened at America's parties? Well, whatever that did happen, it most certainly would not be France laying a single finger on the precious skin that was America's! England would be sure of that, even if that meant getting over the Atlantic aboard a jet set on turbo.

He let the rum bottle fall to the floor and shatter, his eyes not lingering for a second on the dozens of cans scattered across the flooring of his kitchen that once held the fiery liquid known as alcohol.

England bolted out his front door like lightning, struggling to put on his jacket as a slight drizzle and cold night wind collided with him. He dashed down the streets of London, limbs practically in a spasm of frustration to be at _the airport already! _It was dark and he could barely see ten feet in front of him, his car was getting repairs at some auto shop a couple streets back, and the rain was picking up on force with each passing second. There was no need to mention that he was running into buildings and tripping over his own two feet from the dizziness the alcohol was causing him. If only he had gone earlier . . .

Breaths coming out raggedly, the personified country slowed down considerably, one pale hand pulling down the collar of his shirt, willing oxygen to enter his chest; his lungs felt like they were about to collapse at any given moment from exhaustion. England really wished his car wasn't at the shop.

A blur on the street caught his attention, green eyes darting to the source.

Taxi!

Squinting, England saw that it _was _a taxi. Not wasting any time, the Brit ran to the edge of the road, arms waving frantically. "Taxi! _Hey!" _The driver must have spotted his idiotic attempts to catch his attention for a second later he pulled over and England was on his way to the airport, getting a private plane straight to America.

* * *

England wasn't certain when his plane dropped him off at Pittsburgh, or when he rented a car at a nearby auto shop, nor when he found himself in the yard of America's countryside, mansion-sized house about thirty minutes from the airport he arrived from. All he did know was that he had somehow made it and that it was close to midnight here. How he ever new which state America's party was hosted in - never mind where his house was - was a complete mystery that sadly could never be solved.

Somehow England's flight to America had gone almost impossibly fast, even so for a private jet. The pilot had asked him where he wanted to be dropped off at and England had just randomly spluttered Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania like he knew all along. It was very odd, but it was exactly where he needed to be, and England thanked his hidden sense for that tidbit of information stored in the back of his brain.

The wind was frigid, the star-spangled sky a deep blue, the luscious green grass blowing harshly in the cold wind, and the structure down the knoll in front of his eyes radiating loud, annoying, American music. Multicolored dance lights shown from each window on every floor and room, the colors changing at each second England dared to blink. Somewhere, deep in the mess of that party, was his America, having the time of his life, alongside France, who could be - most likely - doing obscenities to his former colony!

Emerald eyes transformed to slits; that was _that,_ and now big brother England was coming in, whether he was welcomed anymore or not.

The cold midnight wind was blatantly ignored as England marched over to the huge building, the soles of his shoes striking the harmless grass with much more force than necessary, his chilled hands clenched into taut fists at his sides, a glimmer of psychopathic hurt smeared over his eyes. If any homicidal situations commenced tonight it would _totally not _be his fault.

The sound of shoes hitting stone echoed around the valley, a fist colliding with the wooden door frame just a second later, an impatient four-beat knock pounding against the frame.

England watched as the doorknob jiggled and turned, the door sliding back to reveal a wide-eyed, open-mouthed country before him.

He let a grimace play at his lips before a pleasant smile came forward - even in drunken states, England had to keep up his gentleman aura.

"Ah, hello Canada. How are you this fine night? Enjoying yourself, I would hope," he said in the most well-mannered voice he could muster, choosing to disregard the appalled country's stuttering and shoulder his way past, the smile still present on his face. "Now, if you will excuse me for being so blunt, I really must be getting to America." England walked away without another word, leaving Canada to remain there for a moment longer, words refusing to escape his mouth.

The room England entered was defiantly the living room, complete with countries by the dozen and pointless crap occupying the large expanse of space. It was blasting dubstep at a level where the speakers vibrated violently, and to just make matters worse right when he entered the room the bassdrop came on, making his head pound and a headache imminent.

He stood near the doorway for a minute, rubbing at his temple, willing away the pain, and at that moment did every other country notice his presence. The speakers halted their blaring; the conversations died down until none remained; and not one country moved a muscle aside from their eyes to stare shockingly at him.

Not at all blaming them, he waved a hand, that disturbed smile still on his face. "Shocking, really, I know. You all probably weren't expecting this at all, but here I am, in the flesh."

Movement caught the Briton's attention, and who he saw was the exact person he came here for.

"England?" America's voice, clearly startled, went up an octave when seeing the older country. "W-what are _you _doing here?"

England laughed lightly, shaking his head. "Silly, isn't it apparent? Enjoying myself at your party, obviously. What does it look like?" He watched the other frown, then shake his head.

"But that doesn't even make any sense - you _hate _this day, and earlier you even told me that you wouldn't be coming."

The drunken country knew America was right, but that didn't have much affect on anything now. "A guy can change his mind if he wants to."

America continued to stare oddly at England, who in turn lent against the wall, a sneer overtaking his smile. Not any other country said anything; they barely even breathed. It was rather unsettling and awkward, but England honestly didn't mind nor care. Until another country interrupted the silent atmosphere.

"Oh, Angleterre, we were having so much fun without you, so why come and spoil the party right in the midst of the fun?"

That _stupid, mocking, arrogant _French voice set England on edge. He really would not mind a knife right now.

"What do you want, _France?" _England snapped, not hiding the hatred in his voice, though - without him really noticing - his voice slurred in a drunken manner, giving away his earlier actions.

France smiled cheerfully, happily relishing in the fact that England was already barking at him like a dog. "Mon petit frère et moi, well, we were simply enjoying ourselves with the other countries. Isn't that right, Amérique?" Flirtatious as ever, the blonde country gave America a secretive smirk, who - naïve as ever - just stared blankly, blue orbs worried.

England bit his lip, tasting metal. "Don't you _dare _speak of America as _your _little brother! _Ever! _He never was; never will be. _I _was always his older brother and the damn best one at that! You can't even compare to me! You couldn't raise a country even if you were handed an instruction manual!" _Now _England had every country's full attention. He never wanted France to ever refer to America as _his _little brother! America was his and he'd make sure that bastard knew it!

"I don't care if you think you are because, France, you are not, and you better learn that! Or I'll be sure to make you," The Brit took a step towards the Frenchman, only to be yanked back by America, who had somehow gotten to his side.

"H-hey, wait! Seriously, England, dude, there's no need for violence," America paused, relaxing his grip as England made no motion to be freed.

France snickered. "Amérique's quite right, Angleterre - there is no need for violence. It's a wonder why you came when it's obvious that you're drunk out of your mind right now."

"I can do whatever the bloody hell I want to!" England growled. "And I don't need to hear criticizing from the likes of you!" He saw France shrug and almost exploded.

America was getting pretty pissed. "Will you two just _stop? _I don't need my party going up in flames because of you, England! And you don't need to make snarky side comments!" America watched England and France pause and glare at each other, hate radiating from them.

"England," The Englishman's shoulder turned towards him, but his green eyes stayed firmly put on France. "Why don't you get some rest? If you really just flown all the way over here you must be pretty worn out, and you might wanna rest since you . . . yeah . . ." America trailed off, hoping England wouldn't put up any more of a fight than he already had.

To America's astonishment, England didn't protest. "Fine," was his rough reply as he was gently pushed by America to the stairs, shooting one last hateful glance at France, who coincidentally happened to be talking with Russia. The bastard.

America guided the murderous nation up the stairs, listening quietly as the other muttered curses under his breath about the French country. England knew America heard, but in his current state, he honestly didn't give a single fuck.

All he knew was that his thoughts from earlier were right and that France needed to burn in hell.

England stumbled down the hall shamelessly, his shoulder blade colliding with the wall more times than he cared to count (not that he had enough sense left to make it to the number three). He felt the grasp America kept on his upper arm just barely, and the strange glances the younger country shot his way went by completely unnoticed - to anyone observing the situation, they'd say England was 100% pissed, and that would be the truth. And just to clear things up, he was pissed both ways.

Emerald eyes watched, unfocused and glossy, as the end of the hall grew closer, a single oaken door appearing at the edge of their vision in a blur of brown. He blinked, attempting to clear the hazy sight, and glanced back over at America, who spared him not a glance and continued leading him towards the door, his grip firm and lips set in a straight line. To England, America seemed rather peeved about something.

England followed America into the room after the door was pushed open, eyelids heavy with exhaustion from . . . something England was quite sure what. Was it the alcohol? Wait . . . . had he been drinking? England pushed a hand against his temple, clenching his eyes shut. God, his memory was so fuzzy he was surprised he knew who he was . . . which was England, right?

A soft cushion met with his face. England blinked.

"There, now get some rest," America turned on his heel, about to walk out, until he felt a grip around his wrist. "What do you want now, England?"

The elder country may have been beyond drunk but that didn't contaminate his reasons for coming, or that America had practically begged him to show up.

"Now wait just a minute. America, where do you think _you're_ going?" England waited for America to turn back around, a noncomprehending look evident on his face. "I went through all the trouble to come here after you begged for an hour and now you want me to go to _bed? _That doesn't sound right." England stood, faltering only slightly as he did. If America wanted England to travel across the Atlantic and then not even want him at his party he had another thing coming, because the Briton would certainly _not _accept that.

Catching the American off guard, England wasted no time in reversing their positions and pushing the other back against the bed, slamming his shoulder with enough force into the bewildered country to knock him back onto the mattress, blonde head hitting the headboard with a harsh smack. England grinned in satisfaction; that had been easy.

America's sapphire eyes widened, a hand coming up to caress his aching head. "The _hell, _England? How much did you drink?!"

England rolled his eyes, annoyed. "_You're _the one who so bluntly rejected me when I arrived. The hell's up with you? I thought you wanted me here," he stated, voice holding a tint of smugness to it.

America scoffed. "I _did, _when you weren't drunk!"

"Too fuckin' bad."

Now _that _was the most slurred sentence America had heard in the past century. "Well it's too bad for you too 'cause you still aren't coming downstairs with me!" America made to get up, but was forced back when England - without warning - leapt on top of him and straddled him with strength America wasn't familiar with.

A sickly sweet smile crossed the Brit's face - it disgusted America with its placement. "Sorry, but if I don't go down, neither do you." England remained quiet, patiently awaiting for the American's reaction. It only took a mere moment for something akin to horror strike the boy's face.

America swallowed a lump in his throat, thinking over what England had said quickly before replying back in a voice that sounded nothing like his own, "D-dude, Iggy, you seriously have no idea what you're saying, right? I mean, come on! Don't you think you're being a bit irrational here?" That may have not been the best thing to say to the older nation judging by what his face portrayed.

"Me? Being irrational?" England's voice was scarily quiet, but only gradually grew louder. "Don't you _dare _talk to me about being irrational! _Ever! _I wasn't the one who went and rebelled like some imbecilic child! I wasn't the one who started a war for damn freedom! You acted like, the entire time, I was being the bad guy! Well, I _wasn't! _Try as I might, I just could not talk sense into you and so much blood had to be shed and innocents taken of their lives!" England ceased speaking, emerald eyes gazing into beautiful blue, chest rising and falling, breath ragged. When he spoke again it was hushed and pensive, "So tell me, America, who is the irrational one? Because I sure as hell don't see how I am."

America was suddenly dumbstruck. He had no idea how, and may never know how, but England had just turned the tables on him and accused him for the Revolutionary War; blamed him for every act that had developed over the time that they had fought. How was it possible for the Briton to have done that and to actually make America feel remorse pick at him in the corner of his mind? It was absurd; it was ludicrous; it was preposterous; and yet, it made all the sense in the world. America knew he had done damage, and he knew England had done a good portion as well, but he had long since shrugged off the war - there was nothing left for him to keep. Though, for England, perhaps the war had meant much more. Perhaps he had never went a single day without thinking of the bloody fields, the cracks of the cannons, and the screams of kin being slaughtered right before watering eyes. Maybe . . . he just never wanted America to leave him. There was that time, that rainy evening, where England had the perfect chance to kill him, but he didn't . . . couldn't . . . wouldn't . . .

"I'm sorry,"

The words were spoken so delicately that both countries feared they weren't muttered at all. The gentle breeze wafting in through the open window almost tore them to shreds, but yet England had heard them; he had heard them, and he had let an isolated tear fall.

A second droplet met the other in a minute puddle on the fabric of America's shirt before England constricted the pursuing tears, eyes watered over behind taut eyelids.

Those words, those two little words, hurt. They both hurt and healed. It felt like a dream hearing them, and England did not want to awake from the bliss offered to him. What was the chance this was real? What was the chance America would ever say something as sincere as that? What was the chance . . .

"Don't be."

It was America's turn to be surprised. The words were said louder than America's own, but still spoken to be barely audible.

America waited for England to sit up and converse with him about the war, but it never happened. England had his head buried in the blonde hair of the younger's, arms tightly wrapped and refusing to let go. America didn't mind it.

England watched the young country from the corner of his blurry eyes shift, then return the hug a bit hesitantly. He smiled.

"You could say it was both our faults. But, honestly, it doesn't matter anymore." England murmured the words into America's ear lightly. America slowly nodded. "And I'm sorry, too."

England shifted so he was looking back down at America, arms resting on either side of his head, a small smile on his lips, which were only inches away from America's own. "Really, I am. I never meant for anything to go that far, and I'd like to apologize for that," England pressed his lips tenderly against America's, listening to the little gasp that escaped from America.

He kept his eyes open and connected with blue, appalled ones. The pair of blue eyes watched his, an unspoken question ascertainable. England did his best to answer it with his own. He watched as the eyes went behind a curtain of eyelids and felt as the limp pressure against his lips was returned shyly. He smiled with the kiss.

America's press was nervous and uncertain; he had little idea of what he was supposed to be doing, and England knew that. He also knew America's lips had never touched another's in such a way, however old the country was. England ran a hand down the nation's cheek, caressing it like one would a baby kitten, and that's exactly what England had thought of America as: a thing that needed protection from all the evil in the world. And he would be the one to give it to him, whatever the cost may be.

The other's lips were soft and vulnerable and amazing - England was slow when parting from them.

America let his eyes flutter back open, gaze focused on England, wonder still swirled around his eyes. His breathing was just a centimeter off being regular. "E-England?" The country made a sound of recognition. "Why?"

The question sounded stupid in the Brit's ears, but if America had to know, he'd tell, "I'd wanted to do that for a while." England made to reconnect their lips. America moved his head to the side.

"You're just d-drunk, England. You don't know what you're doing." America tried to get England to see why he should not be trying to kiss him, but even he didn't know why he was attempting that.

England's face held amusement. "I think I do know what I'm trying to do, now, if you'll let me we can continue . . ." America didn't get his chance to protest as England's lips descended on his once again, this time not giving the American another second to adjust before he parted the soft lips with his tongue and forced himself in. Hands pinned together above his head, America could do little to fight off the other, despite how much he actually enjoyed the Brit's touches.

The inside of America's mouth was like a hot cavern that had never been explored before this night. England felt like he had gone to heaven without dying; it was a gift from God to the Briton. Every crevice in the wet cave was touched, and though there was hardly any response from the other mouth, England heard a few low moans emerge from the throat of the American. The sound was the most angelic thing England had ever heard and he longed for it to radiate from the other for as long as he could make it.

Ghosting his hands over the sides of America's body, England pushed his fingers under the shirt that hung loosely from the body beneath his, eliciting another surprised gasp from those perfectly pink lips as he detached himself from them. Skimming his fingers across the delicate skin that hid under the shirt - and earning heavier pants - England attached his lips to the tender skin of America's neck, trailing little kisses down to the shoulder, where he bit down and left a noticeable red mark. America grunted, forcing his head back into the soft surface of the pillow.

"England!" His voice was more of a whine than anything else and for the life of him he couldn't help it.

Said nation detached himself from the spot only to look, unamused, into America's eyes. "I don't see why you're complaining when you know you want it. Just lay back and don't talk, okay?" Again, America wasn't given the chance to say anything as England slammed his lips on the other's, forcing up the shirt that covered the younger nation's upper body so uselessly. America's eyes widened, pupils dilating as the fabric left his skin and hit the floor.

England let his lips touch the smooth skin with not a blemish in sight. His hands ran down the American's sides until they connected with his hips that were still covered in clothing. Smirking against the perfect skin England tugged one side of the pants down curiously, wondering how America would react to that.

America squeaked - to England's pure delight - and tried to free his arms from their tight prison, but to no avail.

Waiting for a moment, England pressed a kiss to the lobe of America's ear, sliding the rough fabric of the jeans down a fraction of an inch. "America," he whispered, sane enough in the mind to reassure the young country. "trust me with this. I promise I won't hurt you, but if you act like how you are now, it _will _hurt, and that's the last thing either of us want."

America bit his lip, staring intently at the white ceiling. "If you don't want me to get hurt then why don't you just stop? I told you I don't want-"

Cut off by England's finger over his lips, America stared into the green eyes above his, still confused.

"Because," he began. "I know you want this, and so do I."

"You're only doing this 'cause you got alcohol mixing up your thoughts. You shouldn't have come here." America stated firmly, though on the inside he still felt uneasiness bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

England grinned. "It's too late for that now, love. Wouldn't you say so?" He pressed a sloppy, alcohol-filled kiss to America before yanking down the jeans in one go, earning himself a stunned stare from the American. Had he really thought he wasn't bound to do that eventually? Such obliviousness. America was much too cute for for his own good.

Gazing down with lustful eyes, England realized that without all that bulky clothing America seemed to wear everyday the young nation was much more slender and . . . smaller. He blinked, glancing up at America, who looked back at him, face reddened to that of a strawberry's color. So that's why America had a fetish for larger clothing - to have something to hide behind. England smiled at how bashful the arrogant nation actually was.

"S-stop staring . . ." America mumbled, avoiding the other's eyes as they came to catch his own.

England only granted the request in favor of flaking the other's stomach with little kisses down to the waistline of the boxers America wore. He ran a hand along one of America's legs, going past the leg of the boxers and groping the other beneath them. America let out the loudest gasp he had so far all night and scooted further up the mattress, his entire body nearly flushed pink in embarrassment. England stifled a laugh. "You're much too easy, America."

America fumed. "What would you expect? I haven't done this before and here you are nearly raping me! You're barely conscious about what you're doing and won't let me go!" England swore he already explained to America why he was doing this but apparently the childish nation just wouldn't pay attention to reason.

"Shut up; you're acting like a baby," England pushed his hand past the waistline of the boxers and gripped America's length, which, to America's astonishment, had somehow grown hard during their actions.

Grunting to hold in a moan - he would not give England that pleasure - America threw an arm over his face, breath unstable and rough. It only worsened when the Briton's hand started moving up and down, fondling him with long, painful strokes that stretched from top to bottom. Just how talented was England in the bed, and how many people had he slept with? . . . America nearly went soft with that depressing thought. Of course England was doing this because he was drunk and had as much sense as America did on a sugar rush, and it wasn't like America was the first person he had ever done this with, but America had always admired the older country in a way that was a little bit beyond brotherly. The thought that in the morning this would mean nothing did hurt a lot, but even if he did say something the Briton would simply push it aside like everything else.

England saw America spacing out and ran a fast brush with his hand down the other. America couldn't replace this moan with a grunt, and it came out, loud. Now _that _was the most beautiful thing his ears had ever heard.

America grit his teeth but he couldn't hold back the moans that came now with the strokes of England's hand on him, doing things America had only heard about from France. Sure America had touched himself a few times before but when it was another person doing it - specifically England - it was a hundred times better.

"Ahhhh . . ." America clenched his hand in a tight fist, felling the pressure and pleasure build up in his stomach; it hurt too much to hold it in anymore. Right before he could get the chance to relieve himself of the glorious torture England let go of his length, the boxers that once adorned his legs now at the foot of the bed. America opened his eyes, disoriented. "England . . . what?" England just shook his head, a simple "not yet" leaving his lips.

A plain kiss was pressed to America's lips. He returned it just slightly, and right when he did his ears picked up the sound of a zipper coming down . . . America broke contact with England and glanced downwards, to where England had undone his jeans and was attempting with one hand to pull them down.

He was almost at a loss for words. "Y-you seriously aren't . . . serious, r-right?"

England knew however many times he said it the words wouldn't process right in the American's mind. "I told you earlier, so don't fret." England's eyes flickered around the room, as if remembering something, and then he sighed, looking back at America. "I don't have anything to help with the pain, I'm afraid to say, so here," England held three fingers up to America, who, in turn, looked like a bush baby with how big his eyes were.

"N-nothing for the pain?"

There was a sigh. "Just suck."

America hesitated before letting England push his fingers into his mouth. As foreign as this was, America at least did know why the elder wanted him to suck on his fingers.

Dragging his tongue along the slender digits experimentally America watched as England groaned above him. America quirked an eyebrow, wondering if England had actually gotten pleasure from that. He did it again, and he got the same response. America never realized teasing England in such a way was actually quite entertaining. He sucked on one finger, caking it over with saliva the best he could before he switched to another, where he did the same thing, repeating his act each time. If England was going to do this, America didn't want it to hurt. England was pissed out of his mind and probably wouldn't realize if he was causing pain to him even if he screamed.

England's pants were growing rapidly tight, so much that it was beginning to hurt, _majorly. _It seemed like an eternity until America was finally done coating his fingers with spit and when he felt the other detach his mouth from his fingers his pants and boxers were off in what was record speed for the drunken Briton.

He kept his gaze locked on America as he slid a saliva-slicked finger into America, with great effort, might he add. Never, ever, with anyone he had slept with, had they been this _tight. _And that tightness only increased England's want for America. Carefully, England moved that finger around, spreading America only a little. America winced, then relaxed. England pushed in another alongside the first and waited for the other to grow accustomed to the new sensation before moving them differently than with the single finger before.

It was uncomfortable for the American, but at least it wasn't painful. The feeling was more of getting uneasy and needing to run to the bathroom, only America didn't feel like going to the bathroom for this, but he did feel like gritting his teeth as that second finger slide in beside the first. He felt the fingers thrust inside him and panted, cracking open his eyes to find England watching him intently, face portraying no hint of emotion.

"AH!" America couldn't fight back the shout or the water blurring his vision as he felt another finger enter him. This one _hurt. _And England, lips flashing in a smile, had expected the scream.

England kept a steady rhythm inside the younger with his fingers, shifting their positions each time whilst trying to find that one little special spot England knew was located somewhere inside the blonde beneath him.

A low, sweet-as-honey moan burst from the full pink lips, blue as the sky eyes gloss over in a look of pure, absolute bliss; one that England had, until this moment, not gotten the chance to see. England's own eyes mirrored America's at that, a deep longing to be _in there already _building up in every section of his body, but one section more than the others.

One last thrust of his fingers at America's prostate and he pulled them out, America groaning as he did. England gripped the American's slender hips, lining himself up the best he could with unfocused vision, and forced himself in with one hard thrust.

America screamed, never expecting England to push in all at once, and he wished that the Brit had not - the pain was practically unbearable and his voice cracked as the scream tore from his throat. It was a miracle some other country hadn't come searching for them by now, wondering what the hell they were doing.

England grunted, the tightness surrounding his length like nothing he had ever felt before, and it was absolutely wonderful. He paused for just a moment to gain his breath, not paying much attention to the scream that erupted from America. His drunkenness had always led him to a state where he didn't care what the other thought, only what he did, and right now he wanted nothing more than to fuck the American senseless. He pulled out until on the very tip remained, watching America's face change from pain to something lesser. England thrusted back in.

Knuckles turning a pasty shade of white America gripped the bed sheets, teeth puncturing his lip to stop another scream from escaping his mouth from the pain. Three fingers had been in him only moments ago and they weren't much of a problem, but England was so much _bigger _than three fingers. America really had not pondered over how large England would be and that was something he now regretted. Iron tasting liquid seeped past his parted lips and down his throat. _Blood. _His lip throbbed, and he hurt like he had never hurt before. God, he wished England had had lubricant instead of saliva to work with.

Another thrust; another stifled scream.

That's how it went for a solid minute, and America swore he was about to pass out from the pain of it all, until a special spot was suddenly struck. A scream was replaced with a moan of want, the hands gripping the sheets loosening just a fraction. America breathed out and opened his eyes, the water seeming to vanish now that his prostate had been found.

England cracked open his own hazy eyes to meet America's, lust coating them like frosting atop a cake. "Told, ah, you that you'd enjoy it," he grunted out, watching the rise and fall of America's chest in time with his thrusts, the breath leaving his lips in wonderful little gasps.

America only watched England's lips move, the words barely reaching his ears. His breath was ragged and cut short by the gasps that left his mouth. America wouldn't lie; he liked this. No, he loved it. It was the most marvelous feeling he had ever experienced and he never wanted it to end. The feeling of England above him, pushing into him like there was no other meaning in the world was . . . amazing. America could think of no other word, not as the thrusts continued to grow harder and faster. Drunk or not, England was England, and America loved him, even if the feelings weren't returned.

"America . . . A-America . . . God, America, you're, ah, wonderful . . ." England managed to somehow form words, and wherever those had come from was beyond him. Leaning down, England pushed his lips against the soft pink ones, a tight feeling in the bottom of his stomach.

The young nation pushed back against the Briton's lips, his lips parting with a gasp as he felt a hand wrap around his length once more, the pumps meeting in time with the thrusts without flaw. Just where had England gotten this skill?

America tightened his hands into fists again as the fuzzy sensation grew inside of him, spreading downwards and eliciting an audible moan from his throat. He couldn't hold on any longer, even if he tried.

"Ahh, England . . . _mmm, England!" _America buried his face in the side of England's neck as he came, his arms encircling England's neck barely able to hold him up. Strong arms hugged his back to keep him from hitting the mattress, the thrusts now growing different.

America didn't need any warning to know England was close to coming, and it came as no surprise when the older country finally let go of keeping it in and ejaculated inside of the young country, coating his insides white with cum.

England fell to the bed with America, his forearms the only things keeping him from collapsing on top of the other in an inebriated heap. There was a dark sensation pricking at the back of his mind, shadowing over any other thought to cross the large expanse, and slowly ebbing any of the consciousness that remained. He waited a moment, casting a glance at America beneath him, who had his eyes closed and bantam breaths slip past his lips as he exhaled. England briefly wondered if he was asleep. No doubt he was exhausted - everyone was after their first time.

Lowering himself down next to the young country, England pulled the plush fabric of the covers over he and America, slipping away from sensibility as the blankets touched him.

His mind was fogged over so much from the intoxication given by the alcohol and the pleasure given by the sex that he was already out of it by the time America pressed his head against his chest hesitantly, hands reaching for the fabric adorning England's torso.

Something was uttered lower than a whisper, but it went undetected by the Briton's ears as he fell into a relaxing, blissful sleep.

* * *

The soft glow of morning light leaked through the cracks in the blinds, illuminating the dark room with warm sunshine, the light disturbing one figure that lay in the mass of covers adorning the bed. Sunlight shone against thin, pale eyelids, earning a muffled groan and a shift of the eyelids. Opening as if in a daze, glassy emerald orbs stared down at the mess of sunny blonde hair - with one strand firmly standing straight - in momentary confusion, a bewildered look crossing over them.

A few birds nearby chirped in the morning's gentle light.

Emerald eyes vanished behind pale eyelids for a moment, trying to focus back on the present.

England's pupils dilated.

_No . . . No! That hadn't been a dream? Had I really . . . just . . . Oh, God, no! Just how much alcohol did I have to drink last night? _England realized, panic boiling up in his stomach, that whatever he thought were only illusions and dreams had actually been _real. _He hadn't wanted that . . . Well, he _had _really wanted that for decades now, but never like how it had went down last night! He never wanted to do something so foolish while being drunk! His fellow countries were right - he had a major drinking problem. _Damn, damn, damn! Now America will . . . what? What will he do? Expect me to possibly have a relationship with him? _England shook his head. _That's preposterous! America very well knew how pissed I was last night and couldn't possibly . . . want . . . _

Memories flooded his mind without consent, blinding him from any rational thoughts.

_He had enjoyed that . . . I know he had . . . _England squeezed his eyes shut, the sudden memories unwanted. Try as he might, he could not push them away; they were persistent little buggers that put up a good fight.

Opening his eyes reluctantly - still not wanting to face the situation at hand - England let his eyes drift downwards, to the young nation that slept on, blissfully unaware of the struggles England was dealing with.

America looked like a child tucked under the blankets with the way he was, his glasses resting on the bedside table. It seemed that he wasn't about to get up anytime soon. And it wasn't England's obligation to wake him - not that he would want to, with the way his smooth hair fell into his face.

England sighed. It wasn't as if he could just up and leave. How would the childlike nation react to that? England didn't want to think about it.

_I can't leave, and I don't want to wake him . . . and I don't think he's going to get up on his own . . . Honestly, I'd like it if I could just lay here a little longer, before he wakes and we have to deal with all the complications from last night. _England smiled to himself, absentmindedly flicking a stray hair behind America's ear. _Yeah, that sounds nice, and I don't think America will have much to complain about. _Decision made, England settled back down next to the sleeping American, wrapping a hand firmly around the slim waist.

_It seems like it was all just a huge mistake . . . but I can't help but wonder if America would, perhaps, want to do that again . . . ? _England ran a hand through America's limp hair, pausing briefly to ponder over the thought. _How positively wonderful that would be. Maybe I'll . . . talk with him about it later, _Blinking as though amazed, England had to wonder if he had really just thought that.

He did.

He didn't mind, though.

Not if America didn't.

Anything America wanted was fine by England, and he'd do his best to provide it for him.

Were countries allowed to behave in such manners? If not, England didn't care; not when he loved where he was and who he was with. It was as if the world suddenly made all the sense ever.

Burying his face in the blonde fluff that was America's hair, England let his subconscious take over before drifting back off to sleep.

"Whatever happens, I'll be here when you wake, and I promise that."


End file.
